Changeling
by Madyamisam
Summary: For Sherlock, ritual murders were boring. They were crude and simplistic in their methods and the culprits furthered their idiocy by the demented chanting of a dead language that, obviously, nobody cared about. The latest string of dead bodies in chalk circles littering the narrow streets of London seemed no different until a mysterious letter arrives at 221B. For Duochanfan
1. Prologue

Title: Changeling

Chapter: Prologue

Author: Madyamisam

Prologue

There was a tense quiet in the large dusty room as light filtered through one single, grime covered window. It was empty, safe for a man in his mid-forties and a small cloaked figure drawing a large intricately designed circle with chalk.

The man whistled in appreciation at the detail that was put in, with seemingly nonsensical words fashioned around perfectly illustrated geometric shapes. Lines overlapped each other in a perfect symmetry with runic symbols marked in specific locations.

A sound alerted him of others approaching. Glancing at the watch on his wrist, he went to open the only door to the room allowing for the guests to file in. One by one, his men, nine in total, shuffled in with four of them carrying a large sack, a bucket of water and a large aluminium tub. The remaining five each held an assault rifle each and stationed themselves around the circle.

"So this is it eh? Shall we get this party started?" the man announced a tongue darting out and wetting his dry lips and pushing up his designer glasses further up the bridge of his nose.

His gaze landed on the illustrator who just finished the final etchings on the dusty concrete floor. With a nod the man motioned for the employees who were carrying the sack and the tub to come forward. They placed the tub at the centre of the diagram then, carefully, they tipped out the contents of the sack. Various soils and powders poured out which was then followed with the large bucket water then mixed together in a cement sludge.

There was a thrum and the man widened his watery blue eyes as the illustrator placed two hands on the outer edges of the circle. The air was charged as sparks started to appear and a blue glow from the chalk flickered to life. The contents in the tub started to twitch then morph into shape. By the time it had finished the pile of clay looked like a wonderful Venetian sculpture. There was a collective gasp and panicked whispers amongst the men as they looked upon the cloaked figure with trepidation. Their hands twitching at the weapons they possessed. Their boss however smiled.

"Impressive, but I believe this is pretty trivial to you isn't it?" Met with silence, the man continued. "I've read the 'secret 'research and I'm fully aware that you know a lot more about this alchemy of yours than you let on. It almost seems impossible to think that people still practise this let alone manage take it to this kind of level of technological sophistication. Imagine if the whole world knew?" The figure remained unfazed and unresponsive to the veiled threat so crooked business man sneered playing his final trump card. "I also know about the accident." A flinch and he knew he had been successful with his persuasion. "I've also managed to procure what was left of that 'accident'. Poor fellow has had a rather ill-fated meeting with a land mine."

"Show him to me." The figure's whisper came out in an aggravated hiss. The motioned again and the two men outside the entrance came in with body. It was a bloody gored up mess. A man, or what was left of him after a bomb had obviously detonated. Shrapnel and possibly a bullet wound. There was mangled flesh and bone, slightly charred at the ends of a stump and distinct space of where the man's leg used to be. He wouldn't have much longer to live.

"I know what he is and what naughty things your people had planned to do to him before this unfortunate incident happened." the man continued to gloat implicating the injuries on the man. The cloaked figure tensed at his slimy words rolled out of his tongue. "I detect sentiment in you though. Seems redundant considering, but if you actually want to save him then you'll have to show me what you can do. Equivalent Exchange right?" the figure hissed at the term being used by the disgusting man.

"Move the tub out of the way and bring him onto the circle then" rasped the cloaked figure.

"There we go. It's nice to have cooperation don't you think?" the man smirked just as he motioned for his employees to follow the instruction. "I do believe you will be a very nice asset for me one day though it still baffles me of your love for this pitiful creature." There was a brief pause as the cloaked figure stared at the dying man.

"I assume you were an only child, Magnusson, a spoilt brat with a hoarding habit." The cloaked figure spoke up, almost spitting the name of the atrocious man but any insult that was thrown his way simply rolled off like water on oil. There was a groan from the injured man, his breathing shallow and his chest rose and fell in quick succession implicating the signs of shock. He'll be dead in minutes.

Slowly the cloaked figure knelt down placing hands on the floor once more upon the edges of the circle. Once again there was a rumble as the energy built up and solidified but then there was something different. A larger circle seemed to emerge from the stone floor like iron filings to a magnet that encompassed practically the whole floor. The symbols were different, grander and more complex than the chalk one that had been drawn earlier. Another spark of electricity and the blue glow returned and a wall rose up sealing any and all exits of the room trapping everyone inside. Magnusson almost shrieked at suddenly being thrust into complete darkness.

"What are you doing?" he hissed.

"Like you said, Charles." said the cloaked figure as the air charged up one last time, the room glowed with light and the hood of the cloaked flew off onto small shoulders so that the men could now see tresses of blonde hair and intelligent bright golden eyes glaring at them with a deadly intensity. The normal blue glow had melted into deep blood red. The new circle hummed and fizzled with power and a vacuous black swallowed up the floor along with the hysterical screams of Magnusson and his men who were disintegrating into nothing. "Sentiment is redundant, but it's all I've got."


	2. An Odd Letter

Chapter 1: An Odd Letter

There wasn't much to the body at the crime scene. Like all the others, it was just a quivering mass of charred remains that might have once been someone's intestines. The grisly sight turned the faces of many of the officers varying shades of green but to Sherlock, it was a mild curiosity to add in a footnote in his ongoing research on human stupidity.

A single deep laceration around the neck meant the victim was strangled then the body was hacked up in post mortem. The large slashes, obviously made by a machete from the black market, carved its way into the fleshy cavity as well as the floor around it. The face had been completely obliterated and smashed in implicating the culprit to be bordering on possibly some sort of drug-induced hysteria. The final act was to douse the mutilated corpse with gasoline then set it on fire.

Sherlock scoffed at the headlines of it being the second coming of Jack the Ripper. If only it had even a fraction of the finesse. In actuality, it was an open and shut case and he had been proven right once again when he heard the police dragging off the members of the occult group involved. All in all, Sherlock thought it was boring.

The locations where the rituals took place however, were a whole different story. Lestrade and the forensics team had chalked up the strange circles littering across London's streets to be the work of the same occult group that they had just arrested but Sherlock knew better. It was coming up to three months since the circles started appearing, most of them in obscure locations where no one would really bat an eyelid to and within a couple of days they would disappear again. Sherlock had ensured that he kept records of them whenever they appeared using his homeless network. After a background check of the members, one thing was obvious about the ritual murders. The circles were not made by any normal means. There was a methodical process involved which required some kind of specialised equipment that no average Joe would acquire, certainly not by a group of overly superstitious morons. The cult who called themselves Ascalon's Children, had simply found a couple of the markings and incorporated them into their routine of torturing and sacrificing animals before quickly graduating to human victims two weeks ago.

Sherlock slid a latex gloved hand against the near straight grains of the stone work on the floor, placing the data in another area of his mind palace along with all the others he had seen the past couple of months.

Some circles were burned into the surfaces, others were like cracks made by ice on walls. This particular one protruded up wards and looked like it had been designed into the architecture but Sherlock suspected it unlikely, considering it was a cheap council house and the fact that it wasn't there a few days before when the police went knocking on doors to find witnesses. It could've been added later on top from a mould but Sherlock doubted it. He had analysed a similar protruding circle that was found on a tree in Regent's Park. Like this one, the tree circle protruded outwards as if it had been a part of the trunk. Analysis of the bark from both the circle and the rest of the trunk were exactly the same. Then, when he returned the next day, it was gone. Had he not taken a picture with his phone or scratched a mark on the tree with a pen knife when he went to collect a sample it, it appeared like the circle never even existed. Looking at the current markings, Sherlock knew they were the same. However, what was most confounding was not what was there but what wasn't. There was an internal design within the circle itself that looked scrambled. The word 'incomplete' came to mind.

There was also a slight aroma of sulphur and possibly nitric dioxide coming from the uniform looking grooves within the protrusions. He blinked as he scratched at the side and then pulled out the corner of plastic packaging that was imbedded into the cement itself. Along with the plastic came tiny black specks, the size of a grain of sand.

"What you doing over there? I hope you're not stealing evidence again." Lestrade's gravelly voice loomed in the distance near the door.

"Perish the thought." Sherlock replied slipping his findings into a couple of evidence bags he had 'borrowed' earlier and made to surreptitiously slip them into his pocket when he was faced latex covered hand.

"Give it" Lestrade's demanded. It seemed the detective inspector had finally wised up to Sherlock's little habits and was particularly dogmatic this time in ensuring that he didn't ferret anything away anything from the scene. Donovan stood behind him with her arms crossed defiantly showing her approval that Lestrade was putting his foot down. She had stopped calling Sherlock 'freak' since his return from death, possibly from feeling guilty of her role in investigating him but it wasn't likely that the two of them would ever be on friendly terms with each other.

"They are completely irrelevant samples."

"Doesn't matter, you're not taking souvenirs from a crime scene, Sherlock. Despite everything that's happened before and what you've done since, the higher ups are watching everyone to follow protocol even more these days. My badge is on the line as well as your access to future cases." The curly haired consulting detective scowled that the one little bit of interesting piece of data he has acquired in all this tedious mess was going to be snatched away from him, but Lestrade was having none of it. He could see Donovan in the background glaring at him as well.

Sherlock never cared much for the Yard taking the credit for practically every case he ever helped them solve, but it seemed that they were getting arrogant with all the praise from the press again. Typical, but it wouldn't do to allow the only policeman he tolerated to lose his job. So, grudgingly, the consulting detective relented and passed the bag over to the grey haired man.

"We've found the leader of the group like you said on the roof where the pigeon roost is." Lestrade added hoping to placate the detective a little with the satisfaction of successfully cracking the case. "The man was a blubbering mess. Found the murder weapons as well. The rope was stuffed in the vent and the machete and gasoline canister is under the second to last floorboard in left hand corner of the bedroom."

"Technically, the only murder weapon was the rope, the rest was just used for their recreational purpose in corpse mutilation."

"Oh, like the random body parts you still store in the fridge?" Sally interjected. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"For the last time, those are experiments. There is a method to them and a chance to acquire useful data for the future. This? This was completely pointless in every which way you make of it and it's boring." There was an awkward silence from the two officers but Lestrade, wanting to remain professional staved his urge to berate Sherlock and put up a hand to let Sally know that he would handle it.

"It's not like you to hang around after the culprit's been found. Was there something we missed?"

"No there's nothing else. Just…" Sherlock trailed off. Something was off and it he seemed more conscious of blurting everything out. Lestrade cocked his head as if hoping he could hear the man's thoughts. "It's irrelevant." The detective said. Taking one last look at the circle, Sherlock turned up the collar of his coat and shoved his hands into his pocket. There wasn't much more to get out of it apart from the small bits he had extracted and Lestrade wasn't going to relinquish it. The only other option was to leave had Donovan not went to block his escape.

"There's still some paperwork we need to get through, so you might need to come to the station with us."

"Let him be Donovan. I'll ask him about it tomorrow " the DI interjected letting Sherlock pass.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the detective inspector. "Weren't you the one spouting about police protocol earlier, Gary?"

"It's Greg and yes Sherlock, I did say that earlier but you look like shit. It can wait until tomorrow. Just go home ok?" the grey haired inspector looked almost frightened. His face had all the indication that he was one step away from yanking Sherlock by the ear, throw him in a police car and drive him back to his flat or perhaps even the hospital. Sherlock shot him a withering glare as he immediately noted the flashes of tell-tale signs of exhaustion in the senior police officer.

The evidence of several nights without sleep showed in large grey bags under his eyes. The tensing of his shoulders suggested he was recalling an argument he had recently. Someone close, a new partner since Lestrade and his wife had separated a couple of years ago. Further look on the wrist there was a clip to the skin from the awkward clasp of a brand new and expensive watch that had been given to the detective inspector recently._ Special occasion_, _date gone wrong _said the words that floated about in his mind's eye. Sherlock would've spoke up aloud about this observation on the man earlier if he hadn't been distracted by the new strange phenomenon that was occurring all across London. Instead, he pursed his lips strode out of the house and out onto the street.

"There you are." He heard a call of a familiar voice that brought him out of his reverie as John had jogged up the street just hanging behind the yellow tape. "Why didn't you call me? I was in the area and I told you I didn't have any work today."

"You were going to a scan with Mary."

"That was this morning,"

"Then you were planning on a lunch date at your favourite restaurant since that's your best shirt and you made the extra effort to add cologne, but you were interrupted by Mycroft's meddling." John would've laughed in amazement of the deduction had it not been for the sight of the state of his friend. Sherlock had always been thin but after weeks not seeing him, he looked skeletal, dark shadow of stubble was evident on his face and his normally luscious curls had become frizzy and brittle. It had come to a point where Mrs Hudson and Mycroft ended up calling him to go check on the consulting detective with the latter literally dropping by in his black car to pick John up from the clinic where Mary was having a scan. Fortunately, he had also offered to escort Mary back home afterwards.

"Well it doesn't really matter anyway, since the case is closed. Murderer was the neighbour with an obsession with the occult and part of an 'elite' group." Sherlock quickly fired out the debriefing. "It was hardly worth getting up for really." John raised an eyebrow at the retreating man before turning his gaze towards the tired inspector standing outside.

"You look terrible."

"Feel it too. I haven't seen you in a while. How's married life?"

"It's alright, quiet…" John replied. It was the truth in a way. He enjoyed Mary's company particularly the sex or at least as much as he was allowed to and there was the growing trepidation and excitement of the new life growing inside of her. It'll be another few weeks before the bump started to show in earnest but he often couldn't help diving to stroke the still relatively flat stomach of his new wife. All in it all it was alright. There are days where he felt restless though, times where everything felt monotone and a little too oppressively quiet that he started wandering the streets late at night a month ago. It worked well enough for a week, then he had stormed his way towards an empty warehouse and ended up spraining a drug addict's arm while searching for a young lad called Issac Whitney. So when Mycroft turned up at the clinic, he leapt at the chance to go check on his best friend that he hadn't seen since his wedding. Mary had smiled encouragingly, assuring him as she stayed in the car that drove her home.

What he thought would be a refreshing change withered in slight disappointment and awkwardness. '_Drifting apart' _came the strange haunting words. Sherlock had promised on his wedding that he would be there for him and his family but John had also made his own silent promise that he would continue with his role as part of the dynamic. John was still technically Sherlock's blogger but he found himself staring blankly at the screen a lot the past few weeks. It was one thing Sherlock telling him his exploits and him actually experiencing them with him.

"Well, it's a good thing you're here because my team and Sherlock are on the verge of killing each other if he hangs around us any longer." Lestrade's words interrupted his rather depressing thoughts. "He's trying to figure something out though, but he'll never share it with me even if after working with him all these years. Maybe you'll have better luck." The grey haired inspector may not have the same level of deductive reasoning that Sherlock had but he was an astute man and easily figured that there was something not quite right with the consulting detective lately. Sherlock was his own little mystery and although Lestrade had a lot of faith in Sherlock, there was just not that sense of camaraderie between them.

"Sure. I'm can give it a try" John said. Truth be told, John wasn't really that confident. Seeing Sherlock like that was a shock to him. A stark contrast to the pristine confident man he saw when they met for the first time. For the most part, Sherlock was still himself, still solving crimes but sharper and quicker than before. From the few visits to an empty apartment, John noted that Sherlock seemed to fly through the cases presented to him, easy or difficult he went through them like a machine to the point that the police were swamped with processing the paperwork of complete cases.

A few days ago, the Yard was presented with an award with the huge number of convictions that they've made as a result of Sherlock's help. Media attention also started to increase their focus on the hat detective again and John sometimes found it amusing when he caught his friend on the TV in the surgery flee through the alleyways away from the rapid clicks and flashes of light.

Sherlock seemed to keep himself busy with anything nowadays even without the threat of Moriaty anymore, working on everything from finding a lost kitten to the latest serial killing. Normally, Sherlock was quite selective of his cases, not bothering to even change out of his pyjamas and being completely insufferable with boredom when nothing interesting came along. John expected to be on the receiving end of a temper tantrum with a deluge of texts but so far nothing had happened. Everything was actually going very well for Sherlock or so it seemed. John had initially been pleasantly surprised by the growing pile of unread thank you letters from clients when he came back from his honeymoon but now he was worried.

Perhaps there was a string of strange occurrences of interesting cases but John would've heard about it from Sherlock and he would be dragged into one at some point but that hadn't been the case. In fact, Sherlock hadn't bothered to call John for two months.

"Did you two have some kind of falling out or something?" Lestrade asked bringing the army doctor out of his reflections.

"What? No. No, of course not." John looked at the tail of the Belstaff disappearing from his line of sight. "We're just…" _Drifting apart._ John felt a lump in his throat at the horrid thought and the words that Mrs Hudson mentioned only a few months ago. "We're just busy."

"Well ok. You'll tell me all about it over a pint some time alright?"

"Sure Lestrade, thanks." John hurried after the detective easily catching up despite the long legs storming at an almost run. Collar up, hands in the pocket Sherlock looked almost wild, eyes darting everywhere across the street. Distracted yet focused at the same time. John was at a loss.

"Where are you heading?"

"St. Bart's." Sherlock replied still looking around everywhere but walking straight past the line of taxis that would take them towards the destination. Surely he wasn't planning to walk all the way there? Now John was really worried. Sherlock never wasted time when it came to moving from place to place yet Sherlock seemed to walking around aimlessly. "Problem?"

"Have you eaten?"

"Not important." John sighed.

"When?"

"What day is it?" John almost stumbled and Sherlock recognised the darkened expression, the grimace and the tilt of his head in disapproval. "What?"

"Right that's it," John said grabbing Sherlock by the arm and dragging towards the direction of Baker Street which was only a block away. Once upon a time, John would've been bombarded with texts on his phone from Sherlock to the extent that once he had been called to make the aggravating detective a cup of tea for him while John was away in Manchester. John had half expected Sherlock to call for his assistance as soon as he had sent a text that he had returned from his honeymoon but that never happened and even after the few conversations he had about any cases the sleuth was on while he was away had tapered off. Sherlock seemed to have cut himself off from him completely.

"John? Wh-"

"Baker Street. You look like you've been in the same clothes for the past week."

"John, I'm busy."

"With what? You just said you just finished the latest case. You can spare a moment in your flat can't you." Sherlock made a face as he allowed himself being dragged back to the front door of his apartment and met with a shocked and tearful Mrs Hudson.

"Oh Sherlock," she whimpered in distress. "I thought you'd gone off and died again. I haven't seen you for days."

"Oh stop being so melodramatic Mrs Hudson." He quickly tuned out the noise of the woman's fretting while John did his best to placate the poor woman.

"It'll be alright Mrs Hudson." John assured before dragging his best friend up the stairs. Fortunately, John still had a spare key to the place so he wouldn't have to wrestle with Sherlock more than he had to. "Now get yourself cleaned up and I'll see if I can salvage anything edible here." He ordered after frogmarching the consulting detective towards the bathroom. When satisfied with hearing the shower running, John picked his way through the main living room of scattered documents and a pile of letters, many of which were stuffed into a bin unread. The entire wall was completely pinned up with papers, photos and dates written next to them. Naturally, finding the cupboards empty and fully aware that there were probably bits of a rotting corpse in the fridge, John opted to quickly pop down to Speedy's and bring up something instead.

There had been a queue at café Speedy's and it was a fairly long wait but John had expected Sherlock to be taking his time with his grooming. John still remembered the cold showers he had to endure because the man had used up all the hot water when he still lived at 221B. John had expected to see the bathroom door shut with steam wafting from the edges, but he had returned to find Sherlock lying still on the couch with his clothes back on and obviously in his mind palace. Although clean shaven once more, he still looked like a ghost with his hair was still damp and his long fingers collected under his chin. John sighed and sat down to wait for his friend to come out of it while taking a moment to contemplate what had been happening since Sherlock had all but stopped interacting with him. He figured that Sherlock would be on the high profile ritual murder case and had expected a call the second the news spread. In the end though, it had been Mycroft who ended up informing him of Sherlock's whereabouts and allowed John to catch up to him.

_It's not one of 'those' days but he's latest actions are uncharacteristic of late. Do us a favour and find out what it is._ The bureaucrat had said to him when he came to pick up John from the clinic. Now how is John going to approach it was the question. Dredging up his medical knowledge, he looked at Sherlock laying so still. He was clearly was not using drugs from John's assessment on the eyes and his general state. To be fair he wasn't sure what state this was. Through the years John had seen Sherlock in all sorts of moods, even had a glimpse of the emptiness from the 'danger' nights Mycroft warned him about. This was something that was completely new to him though. He'd often seen Sherlock in a particular phase all excited and dynamic with his cases, as he worked on them with gusto. Although his deductions haven't been affected, in fact he was still spot on in every single case he had been on and the sheer volume that Sherlock had solved seemed overwhelming to John. Yet there was still something missing, the spark of enjoyment that Sherlock felt for cases that interested him. The fact he took up solving so many cases even the ones he had previously seen as mundane in a perfunctory manner.

Sherlock just appeared have lost interest. In everything, even the Work. When John had first met the man, he had expressed that he considered himself married to it and poured every ounce of focus and concentration into it with enthusiasm and vigour. Now he appeared to wonder in a dreamlike state and almost looking confused as if seeing the world for the first time. Although this state of being never affected his deductions one bit, in fact he was quicker and sharper than ever before.

"I'm fine, " Sherlock said opening his eyes having returned from his mind palace.

"Right, because that's why you've stopped all contact with practically everyone for two months. What's actually going on?"

"It's not the worst thing I've done." John huffed and resisted rolling his eyes.

"Well yes, faking your own death and not bothering to tell me for two years was the worst thing you've ever done but we've already been over that. Now, what's going on?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Yes, what more do you want? I just finished a case, it was boring now waiting for the next one."

"And yet you act like you're in the middle of one right now." John cast his eyes on the wall. The photos which he initially assumed was to do with the ritual killings however, the focus of it all was on the strange looking circles. A couple he had recognised from the scenes of the crime but there were many more. Too many to count. "What else were you looking at? These strange circles that keep turning up?"

"Nothing. They don't mean anything..."

"Then why are you so obsessed with them then? Come on. Who's the client?"

"There is no client!" Sherlock snapped at the army doctor. "Those circles don't mean anything. They are nothing, not unless I get the right data on them and it isn't there." Sherlock angry rant trailed off revealing exhaustion and confusion. His eyes drooping as he struggled to concentrate. Now John was scared, as he had never seen Sherlock look so lost before passing out on the couch. "Not enough… data…" A few minutes passed and it looked like the detective had succumbed to exhaustion, the transport finally winning out against his mind after possibly days where Sherlock went without sleep.

"Christ, Sherlock." John whispered, searching for a blanket to cover the man and he worried about his sanity. What was it about these circles? John thought as he flicked through the pictures and the obscured symbols. Like rocky crop circles except without the explanation of how and why they were there or any sign of who put them there. John sifted through the dates, taking out a pen and idly tapping it on a nearby notepad. After a few moments, the doctor drew a blank on what it was Sherlock was noticing that had his rapt attention when the detective sprang up with a shout.

"Letter!"

"What?" Sherlock shot up like he had just be injected with a dose of adrenaline and pushed around the seemingly endless pile of envelopes before finally unearthing one from the pile and shoved in John's direction.

"Not everyone has realised that you've moved out ages ago." John blinked a few times feeling like he suffered whiplash but he was almost a relief that Sherlock seemed to revert back to himself after that small moment of vulnerability. "Not the usual mail that comes by in a post. It's from a well-travelled elderly gentleman with a missing limb."

"How could you know that?" John chuckled in amusement at Sherlock's brilliance. He tried to take in as much detail from the look of the unopened envelope. High quality paper with several stamps that had obviously travelled through several countries to get to England with a red wax seal imprinted with a crest that looked oddly familiar. It was crown with wings hovered above a sword with a snake wrapped around it. The writing of the address was cursive with black ink likely from a fountain pen. Sherlock talked over the doctor's shoulder as he quickly fired out his deduction.

"The way the 'T's are crossed from right to left implicating use of the left hand but the upward slant of the angle doesn't coincide with a natural left hander. Why write with your non dominant hand unless you have to? So amputee. The paper is from Japan, the ink from India and the wax was produced in Scotland. The colour and the cracked imprint shows the wax is aged likely only used for rare circumstances by an old man who kept his wax for sentimental reasons."

The army doctor blinked several times in amazement before he broke the wax seal to look at the contents. There was a single piece of paper with the same cursive writing and on equally nice paper. The letter was relatively short but it got across the message and it made John do a double take at the contents. To say at very least it was a very odd letter even as he read it out loud to his friend.

_Dear John_

_I hope this letter finds you well and safely by the time I arrive in London. I expect you don't know who I am, which is understandable since your mother will not have told you about me. However, let's not dwell on lengthy introductions in a letter as I'd hate myself for not trying to contact you and meet you in person. It'll please me if you will be willing to visit me anytime during the week from the 10__th. __Meet me at the Milestone Hotel in Kensington. I'll explain to you then of everything you want to know. _

_Yours sincerely _

_Your honourable grandfather _

_Edward Elric. _

_P.S. Seeing as we are both writers, I hope we can share many stories together. I am quite partial to secondary characters. _


	3. A Man called Fullmetal

Chapter 2: A Man called Fullmetal

"Grandfather?" John repeated, rereading the contents of the letter once more before narrowing it down to the last sentence. This had been the first he had heard of an extended family member on his mother's side. Like Mary, he thought his mother was an orphan, practically an unknown married to the Watson name but here it was in black and white. He hadn't even heard of family members of the Elric lineage before.

John wasn't sure what to make of this sudden appearance of another relative. He knew he had a couple of cousins on his father's side of the family and plenty of friends that he had made over the years but he hadn't been particularly close to any of them. Like his therapist said. Trust issues. All he had really was his elder sister Harriet and that had been a volatile relationship in itself. For as long as he could remember Harriet was always within an arm's reach of a bottle of some form of alcohol or another.

"A grandfather with a missing limb and penchant for scenting his letters with Giorgio Armani Acqua Di Gio." Sherlock said taking a look over the army doctor's shoulder. John snorted in amusement at how the man did not let slip one single detail. There was a scent of a deep citrus aroma wafting from the envelope. "I do recall that I said you didn't have an extended family or one that you weren't close to when we first met."

"Yeah well, you would be right about that." John said with a sigh. "It just used to be Harry and myself up in Northumberland. Our parents used to travel the world and hardly ever stayed at the family home long enough to spend quality time with us. Then they died just before I started my second year in the service."

"Um… sorry…" Sherlock said looking at a complete loss of whether that was the right thing to say or not. John chuckled that Sherlock was actually trying to be tactful with him for a change. Had it been anyone else he would've just simply think of it as false sympathy but coming from Sherlock, he felt his heart swell in appreciation. No, he was never very close to his parents but he did feel a little regretful that he never will have the chance to. "How did they die?"

"Perished in a house fire. Kind of ironic considering I heard they travelled to all sorts of life threatening places in the world." John replied folding the letter back into the envelope as he thought about the grandfather his mother never told him about. He supposed there was never much chance to since Peter and Winry Watson were frequently out of the country in his younger years. Thinking about it some more, he didn't remember much about them aside from the few scattered meetings during his late teens and they usually spent most of their limited time with Harriet, most likely because of her alcohol addiction.

"Are you going?" Sherlock's question broke him out of his small trip down a rather depressing memory lane. John took one last look at the envelope and tucked it into his pocket, contemplating the new revelation. What his grandfather wanted with him anyway? After a few months he felt he had his life relatively sorted out. Sure there were a few hiccups like the Issac Whitney incident but one visit to the consulting detective and there was a multitude of questions about his life unfolding before him. Blue green eyes bore expectantly at him. Sherlock, at this point, was lying back down with his head resting against the arm of the sofa. The bags under his eyes stuck out more prominently now the 4 day old dark stubble had been shaved off.

"Yes, yes of course." As soon as the words left his lips, the detective jumped back up again and slipped back into his Belstaff. "That doesn't mean that I want you to come with me, Sherlock. This is a personal family matter."

"The letter came to Baker Street, so it has also become my business." Sherlock reasoned pulling out the second evidence bag he had surreptitiously hidden from Lestrade when the DI confronted him.

"Is that from the- why do you always have such a need to steal evidence from a crime scene?" John gasped, appalled at Sherlock's blatant disregard for police protocol.

"Relax, it's irrelevant evidence to their case." He said tucking it back into his coat. "I was going to go take this to Bart's for analysis but I doubt I'd get much out of it. You're mysterious grandfather's request is a lot more compelling."

"It's a request specifically asking for me, Sherlock. He just didn't realise I don't live here anymore." John said pointing at the name on the envelope and highlighting Sherlock's earlier observation.

"Hmm… nope," Sherlock shook his head, his eyes a light with the familiar glee that he had towards an exciting new case. "Edward Elric meant to send it here. It may have said he wanted to meet you, John but he asked for me." With a graceful turn he trotted down the stairs all signs of his exhaustion having evaporated upon hearing the strange words from the piece of paper in John's pocket. With a sigh, John jogged after him and trundled down the stairs. A taxi had slowed down in front of Sherlock by the time John alerted Mrs Hudson that they were leaving again.

"Where does it say that he even mentioned you?" John climbed into the seat next to the man before giving the driver the name of the hotel.

"Oh look again John. You're out of practise." The detective glanced out of the window looking distractedly at some abstract object that no one else could see. It reminded John of his neighbour's cat perched on the top of the fence that separated the two gardens. It was a far off look that almost seemed supernatural except instead of Missy the cat's bored amber eyes, he found himself under the scrutiny of fiery blue green. John swallowed as he pulled out the envelope from his pocket and was firmly reminded about the vow Sherlock had made to him on his wedding. Opening the letter, John read it again, this time searching thoroughly through every curve and crossed 't' to ascertain what it was Sherlock had got out of the message. Then came the oddity of the post script '_I am quite partial to secondary characters.' _and it came to him like a bolt out of the blue as his mind refocused on the first letter of the second word of each sentence.

"Hope, explain, let's…." John murmured extracting each word and mentally marking the first letter down. By the time he went through the entirety of it, he realised why Sherlock was so eager to come with him. "Client." he concluded as the words '_Help me SH_' stood in big bold letters in his mind. A client who was in trouble. Satisfied that the ex-army doctor was finally on the same page he was, Sherlock leaned in and whispered just out of earshot of the taxi driver.

"Have you got your gun?"

"Do you have to ask that every time?"

"It's in your pocket, right?"

"Yes, it is." John replied with an amused smile creeping up on his lips. He had contemplated that it to be ridiculous taking his gun out of the drawer earlier this morning for what he originally thought was a baby scan and a nice lunch out. It was not worth the risk, and frankly a little irresponsible yet John couldn't help it and he was now glad that he did bring it with him. Nothing made him feel more alive than diving head first towards something potentially dangerous.

The Milestone Hotel gleamed in its grandeur on the main street. Even for someone who was now semi-famous as a result of his internet success about the exploits of the Baker Street detective, the five star establishment made John feel awkward and he had only been in Buckingham Palace only a couple of years ago. Sherlock however, seemed engrossed in the letter he had snuck out of John's pocket, almost as if he were the one visiting a distant relative that he didn't know for the first time. Rather than dwell on the immaculate trims of the décor and how it evidently clashed with his knitted cardigan and jeans, John approached the front desk.

"Excuse me," he began to the receptionist.

"Dr John Watson?" the reception latched on with a smile to dazzle any guest. John blinked a few times then flashed a smile at the woman.

"Yes?"

"Right this way sir, he's been expecting you in the Prince Albert Master Suite." she directed pointing towards the lift. John let out a tremulous breath as they were led towards the room in question.

The door of the Prince Albert suite opened just as they were about to knock and John's senses heightened as he sensed tension in the air. High ceiling to floor windows interspersed on one side, the walls tinted with beige and gold trimming against rich dark furniture. Fresh lilies were arranged neatly on the tables. What drew their attention though was the man sat in a wheelchair by an old fashioned roll top desk befitting of the Victorian design. The man in the chair was relatively small, with pale hair that trailed passed the shoulders and tied back in a loose pony tail.

"Good evening," announced the figure, back turned towards them with the outer edges illuminated what was most likely the glow from a laptop screen. When the figure turned to face them, the laptop closed down, the light of the screen faded to black. John could see the wrinkles of the old man, a well brushed chin curtain beard and sharp gold eyes.

"I got your letter" John announced glancing briefly to his left at Sherlock who was now staring out at the open balcony towards the Kensington Palace Gardens. There was a blanket over the man's form that covered the lower half of his body. Funnily enough, the man dressed quite plainly in contrast to the luxury of the suite. John could almost guess to be something from the local Marks and Spencers.

"John Hamish Watson?" whispered the voice of the person in the wheel chair as if testing the name after a long period of disuse. John swallowed nervously unsure what to say at first. The man appeared old and frail, more than likely over 100 years of age and he didn't really want to end up doing something that resulted in the man he just met go to hospital.

"Um yes... that's right." The old man's right hand lifted up but then held back as if he was afraid that the image before him would shatter and reveal itself to be an illusion. The hand was gloved but there was a hint of metal just above the wrist where the glove ended and the sleeves rose up the arm; a prosthetic. As usual, Sherlock had been right. Even though it was covered, John noticed the stilted movements even though to most people it looked just like any other hand with it covered in a white glove. Guiding the wheel forward, the old man squinted to get a closer look at the army doctor. Most of the curtains of the room were drawn, with the balcony being the only source of light for him but his eyes trailed up and down John's form analysing every inch of him. "You must be Edward Elric." The old man smiled apologetically shifting brief glances in and around the room and Sherlock in turn stepped forward focusing on something that John couldn't quite see but he had sensed since they arrived at the hotel.

"There's not much point in a surprise attack if we are expecting it. You might as well come out now." Sherlock announced. Slowly, they emerged from their hiding places, guns trained on the two men. There were six of them standing a few feet apart from each other.

"We were only expecting the good doctor to be here." the bald leader of the group of mercenaries stepped forward turning his gun on the old man in the wheelchair. "Doesn't matter, you're coming with us. Along with Fullmetal here." John tensed with the familiar rush he felt when he was deployed out into the front line pumped through his body while he assessed the hostage situation. Barely pausing to ponder on the strange word 'Fullmetal' that the mercenary had called Mr Elric by quickly filing it away into the back of his mind. The situation didn't look good for them until Edward, who appeared so frail and frightened earlier, relaxed and rolled his eyes flashing the doctor with a cool smirk. With a lurch, he tipped backwards on the wheelchair and flicked his left leg and smacking a foot into the man's face.

Distracted, Sherlock, John and Edward made quick work of the thugs that attempted to kidnap them. Fluid like a rehearsed dance, Sherlock had grabbed one of the remaining five whilst their leader was writhing on the floor, used him as a shield then slamming a hand into the man's carotid artery while Edward slammed the wheelchair against another two. John aimed low grabbing one arm and twisted it kicking the back of the leg, allowing John the momentum to throw the thug into the last man in the room. Disarmed and lying in a pile, John pulled out his own Sig from his pocket and trained it on them while Sherlock interrogated the men.

"Who sent you after John?" the bald man remained silent until Edward was by his side with a cane in his hand and jabbed hard against the man's collar bone. The dull snap was drowned by the mercenary's screams.

"Don't make me break the other one, boyo." the elderly man seethed quietly, his eyes now a dark and molten colour implicating his fiery rage. There was no doubt to John that Edward Elric was a dangerous man even at this age. He couldn't imagine what he might have been when he was in his prime. When the man still refused to give the information Edward moved the cane towards the other side.

"It's Magnussen. MAGNUSSEN!" The mercenary gasped out finally before being struck across the temple and he flopped to one side. It was not hard to figure out about Edward's background as his military stance and cold veteran stare. John didn't even want to think about the cost of the repairs but with each passing moment, he kept discovering intriguing things about the man with the metal arm. Edward looked nonplussed, not about the room but about the answer he got from the bald mercenary who lay unconscious on the floor.

"Charles Augustus Magnussen eh?"

"I have no idea who that is." John said keeping his still keeping his gun pointing at the group. The soldier in him was not taking any chances even as he reflected on the name in his mind.

"He's the owner of several newspaper conglomerates with a special interest in extortion and manipulation particularly in politics." Sherlock sneered at name. Out of all the criminals that he had had to deal with, there were few people that turned his stomach as Magnusson. Even his brother, Mycroft was under the man's thumb. However, Sherlock had not heard of activity from the CEO for five years so he wondered why the man had resurfaced now and what he could possibly want with an old amputee and a former army doctor. "Known to be the Napoleon of blackmail."

"He's also dead." Edward added glaring at some imaginary puzzle that no one could see. It was a familiar sight to John which he had only ever saw in Sherlock when engrossed in a case. With intense focus and a complete disregard for the rules of the world around them, it almost seemed surreal to now see such an expression in stereo. John smirked as both men fell silence, staring intently yet not at the anything in particular. John had decided to dub it 'diving' when Sherlock explained the concept of going into his mind palace.

"How do you know that?" he asked after they both resurfaced from their quick wanderings around their mental archives.

"I witnessed it." Edward's face knitted into a frown.

"Maybe he faked it. I know it's not the first time that I've known people to do that." John looked pointedly at his best friend. Sherlock shifted uncomfortably at the implication but John sent him a reassuring smile. Edward however seemed too preoccupied in his thoughts to have noticed the silent communication he shared with Sherlock.

"Perhaps…" There was a pained expression in the old man's face followed by frustration as the solution he was looking for still eluded him. When he finally gave up on his current train of thought, he knelt down by the unconscious bodies. With frightening ease, he ripped and quickly formed makeshift ropes to tie the group up before using the seemingly useless prosthetic arm earlier to pick up each man and threw them in the connecting bathroom. The thugs had to have been at least 150lbs but it seemed the old man didn't even look fazed as he tossed them around like they were just a bunch of large cushions. Each man made a painful sounding groan as they piled on top of each other in the immensely large mahogany bathroom. A flash of cold grey looked peaked out from underneath the man's right sleeve. Metal. Fullmetal. That was what the man had called Edward Elric earlier. It sounded like a code name, cold and gritty and appealed to John's secret love for spies and espionage. "Apologies John, my boy, this wasn't the kind of introduction that I had in mind."

Edward gave him a wry smile. The hair was grey from his age but John could tell that the old man before him may have once had rich golden hair along with strikingly gold eyes. Perhaps it was the years spent with Sherlock that John honed his skills at reading people but there was something otherworldly about Edward Elric. Aside from his keen intelligence coupled with a century's worth of wisdom through the years of war and strife, John could see there was something beyond that. Edward looked exhausted and emotionally drained. His body sagged as soon as he irritably slammed the door of the bathroom and John felt a pang of sympathy for the old man but also a sense of disbelief in the inhuman display of strength.

"So… we're just going to leave them in there and not call the police?" John asked incredulously.

"I have people who will handle them later. For now, let's talk."


	4. An Awkward Introduction

Title: Changeling

Author: Madyamisam

Chapter 3: An Awkward Introduction.

Edward took out a phone in his pocket and slowly typed out a text message. He picked up his laptop that was resting on the study table. With a sigh, the old man sat back into the thankfully intact plush chairs of the now ruined Prince Albert Suite. The laptop, now in front of him on the coffee table blipped back to life and he laced his gloved hands together, waiting patiently for his younger companions to follow suit. Sherlock had done so without a word, seating himself on the sofa. In fact, John noticed, Sherlock had suddenly fallen silent ever since the attack on them. He would normally start rambling deductions left, right and centre but such habits were markedly absent.

"As you both know my name is Edward Elric and it's a pleasure to finally meet the infamous Sherlock Holmes and Dr John Watson." The elderly gentleman gave a discerning glare in Sherlock's direction. "You aren't as tall as the media makes you out to be."

"The trick is having a long coat and a-" Sherlock cut himself off abruptly, stiffening which baffled John. He had only ever seen Sherlock stutter like that and that was in front of a naked woman who's career repertoire included blackmail and bondage. "Well… the media tend to exaggerate." He concluded deftly avoiding speaking out his previous train of thought. Judging from the murderous glare that Edward was flashing towards his direction, it was clear that Sherlock had narrowly avoided stepping on a landmine.

"So it seems. Just as well, I hate tall people and it wouldn't do for us to start off on the wrong foot, Mr Holmes." Edward muttered under his breath reminiscent of what John had pictured a cantankerous old man was supposed to be.

"No, of course not." Sherlock replied pursing his lips as if another word would result in the old man giving another demonstration of his previous wrath against his kidnappers. John, wanting to relieve Sherlock of his discomfort decidedly went to move the conversation along, namely, the reason why he and Sherlock had been contacted in the first place.

"So was all that about the letter a ploy or are you really my grandfather?" he asked, placing the letter in question on the table. Edward flinched at the piece of paper being presented to him and the cracks revealing his vulnerability even after his earlier show of strength. His expression was an amalgam of emotions. Fear, sadness, regret and finally, after staring at John for a very long time, determination.

"Yes. I am." He whispered finally and John felt the gravity of the situation finally started to sink in.

"Well, tell us a little about yourself." John said throwing a glance towards Sherlock and daring him to protest. As much as the detective would like to get straight to the point on why someone was after the doctor, John needed to know about this and he didn't really want to start an argument with Sherlock but the detective remained silent watching the elderly man in front of him intently. A grimace etched itself on Edwards face and another flood of different emotions appeared on his face. Sentiment was something that John knew the Holmes brothers tended to look down upon but Sherlock showed remarkable patience and restraint considering his usual attitude towards clients. Maybe it was because of his age but Sherlock wasn't one to make exceptions like that. In fact Sherlock being 'considerate' seemed out of the realm of possibility.

"I was born in a quaint little town called Resembool and I lived there with my mother and younger brother Alphonse." Edward began, a hint of fondness as he spoke about it. John had never heard of such a place. It sounded very exotic but he could not pin what country the town may have come from. "There were many good memories, even more tragic ones, one of the most painful particularly being my mother's passing. As a result, I made a decision, a very foolish one, which resulted in me permanently leaving that town with my younger brother Alphonse when I was 12. I joined the military shortly afterwards as a field researcher."

"At 12? On your own?"

"I had Al." Edward reasoned. "Child protection laws were very lax from my time and even if they weren't they made an exception with me." John burst into a fit of giggles at the thought of two young boys wondering around the countryside, one of them hefting a great big hunk of metal where his arm used to be. How they managed to get by in the world was a wonder and John was itching with curiosity of hearing about all sorts of stories they must've had. It almost paralleled his own ventures both through the war and his time living with the eccentric consulting detective who was unusually docile next to him. At this point, Sherlock would've normally started rolling his eyes at the tale as he did with most clients but he appeared just as enraptured with the tale.

"Are you sure you're not Sherlock's grandfather?" John asked jokingly.

"Hm… I wish." Sherlock murmured under his breath. Had John not been paying particular attention on his friends he would've missed the quiet little confession and suddenly, it all seemed clear. It was unfathomable that Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock bleeding Holmes showed any form of respect to anyone but it was obvious here that he was like a teenage girl meeting her idol for the first time. After an awkward moment of silence, Sherlock snapped. "What?"

"Oh my God, you're fanboying." Sherlock looked affronted by the statement, his cupid bow lips curled in on itself in what was most definitely, in John's mind, a pout.

"That's not even a word."

"You are though." John chuckled as a tinge of pink appeared on the otherwise gaunt pale face.

"Well 'Professor' Elric just happens to have written several publications that are actually competently written compared to the rest of the drivel by 'so called' scientists these days. All of them under a pseudonym, right?"

"Right," Edward fondly. "But 'Mr' Elric will be fine please. Professor just makes me feel old. I hope this revelation doesn't frighten you, John,"

"Not at all. I've never seen Sherlock admire someone outside of him himself. I'm quite impressed."

"Quite? He was the reason I got into chemistry, John. He was one of the leading developers in modern forensics and actually got me through the tedium during university."

"Are you done prancing about my grandfather like a puppy?" John meant for his chastisement to sound sterner than it was but he couldn't help but shake with laughter at Sherlock pouting again and muttering something under his breath.

'… not the only one who does that…' he didn't hear the rest of what his friend had to say as he turned his attention back to Edward Elric, the brief pleasantness quickly gave way to confusion when Edward looked wistful once more.

"And the name Fullmetal?" John asked sitting up expecting to hear stories about spies. Blue eyes alighted with interest as his mind whirled with the potential of writing an extremely fun adventure filled blog entry.

"As part of my military enrolment at the time, it was the code name I was given." Edward explained slowly pulling off the gloves and revealing the metaled marvel of his prosthetic arm. "You like it?" It was more of a statement than a question really. John couldn't help but rub the back of his head unconsciously embarrassed. Sherlock had always criticized him for being completely transparent but it wasn't like he could help it.

"Well, it does sound rather appropriate and… um gritty?" John replied a little pink around the ears. Edward's reaction was at first perplexed but he smiled appreciatively.

"It is a name that I am personally quite fond of. Though I suppose it pales in comparison to one 'Three Continents Watson'?" John fully blushed this time particularly at the wry, knowing smile of the elderly gentleman. It turned into confusion when the detective had suddenly kneeled to the floor and pushed up his left trouser leg exposing more metal underneath.

"Two limbs… there's always something." Sherlock muttered to himself, cupid bow lips on the verge of an epic pout that he had not deduced that.

"Sherlock!" John cried appalled at the man's disrespect for personal space.

"Engineering of the anatomical structure is outstandingly accurate. It's made with an unusual metal alloy. Durable yet…." Sherlock lifted the leg up. "surprisingly light. It's taken a bit of battering over the years but the quality of the workmanship suggested the person had predicted this would be the case and specifically adjusted it for practically any condition it was subjected to as there was a possibility that you might never meet someone with the same capabilities again. Probably made by someone who knew you quite intimately…" John rolled his eyes as he pulled the tall detective back and fixed him with the death glares that ended all death glares much to the amusement of the elderly Edward.

"I am…. so sorry about that…" John said while Sherlock stared at the floor.

"It's perfectly alright John. I'm sure curiosity is something rather essential in that line of work." Edward chuckled before nodding at his mechanical arm. "As Sherlock said, they were made by a very close friend of mine. A genius in her own right that I have failed to appreciate for a long time until I found myself without her expertise and… well… "Edward looked pained and it didn't take someone like Sherlock to figure out the obvious attachment the elderly gentleman had for the maker of his prosthetic arm. "I named your mother after her, you know." John blinked and smiled. The name Winry was rather unusual but John had a particular fondness and familiarity for it even though he and his mother weren't really close.

"Then… can I…" John asked tentatively. "You know… professional curiosity and all that." Sherlock slumped against the couch dejectedly. Whether it was out of petulance of being dragged away from something interesting or just the fact he was extremely fatigued, John wasn't sure of but he kept an eye on his friend in case of the latter. Edward happily obliged and he took the metal arm reverently and examined the inner workings and wires. His eyes widened as he recognised how Sherlock's initial assessment was an understatement. "Are those wires… actual…"

"Nerve connections, yes. The instruments are tuned to enough electrical output from my own body to be able to be able to move it like it was my own arm. Outside of more delicate functions such as writing with a pencil, I can practically do anything with this automail."

"Automail?" John asked. It was a term that sounded familiar yet not. It was certainly the first time he had come across the term as it had never been mentioned in the medical field.

"That is what it's called but I doubt you'll ever come across it anywhere in the bio-mechanical engineering. It's indeed one of its kind. I have offered it up for reverse engineering but no one's quite figured it out yet or if they have, they are short on volunteers who are willing to undergo such a procedure to graft it on" Edward replied matter-of-factly.

"I suppose, it would've been an extremely painful process to reconnect everything. The entire procedure would have to be without anaesthetics for it to have effective results." John mused and his eyes widened at the implications of what Edward must've gone through both an arm and a leg graft. Edward looked smug when he slipped the glove back on. "Anyway, we travelled around a lot then after our children grew up and had families of their own, Alphonse moved to England while I decided to settle in Japan. I purchased a couple of properties here as well." Edward's eyes hardened as he rested his bearded chin on old interlocking gloved fingers. "One of which was in Northumberland."

"A cottage surrounded by a woodland area just outside of Kelso?" John asked shuddering a little as he recalled the area in which he spent hours alone. It was an isolated medium sized cottage surrounded by a woodland area which looked, for all intents and purposes, a place out of a fairy tale story book. Despite it's seemingly idyllic location that was everyone's dream, John had hated the place. The word 'surreal' came to mind during that time living there with no one but Harriet for company and the brief escapes to school was not enough to keep the oppressiveness away. Even though it was secluded, John felt like he was constantly being watched there which was why he wanted so desperately to leave. Whether it was university or the army, John couldn't have waited to get away sooner.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock's deep baritone cut through into the oppressive thoughts and John jolted back to the present.

"Yeah, yeah. I'm fine. Carry on." Edward closed his eyes pained as if he could read John's mind and realised it was a less than pleasant experience living there. Steeling himself, Edward opened his laptop and after a few clicks turned it around to face them. It was a photo of some burnt ruins that looked both alien and familiar to John. A shell of the old cottage charred and exposed to the outdoor elements, the insides scattered and charred black. He had not gotten involved in the aftermath of the incident and felt a pang of guilt that Harry had to deal with the legalities while he was traversing hot desert and binding wounds. *

"Two people supposedly died in that fire that day." Edward explained. "My daughter and son-in-law."

"Supposedly?" John felt a chill at the word and a feeling of dread as he was about to ask the question. "What do you mean by that?"

"The fire was a cover up." Sherlock explained, omitting his tendency to slip in an insult about intelligence. "The burn pattern has signs that there was a use of an accelerant, proving arson rather than an accident and it was situated in the centre of the house but the most telling is not what's there but what's not." Mercurial eyes gazed intently at molten gold ones with the sense of knowing that John had come to be familiar with since the first day that he met the consulting detective at St Bart's.

"Sorry, what's not there?" Then John caught it when he looked at the picture and doing a double take at the darker burn stains that scattered all over the floor interlocking patterns of what was likely to be petrol being poured from a can all across the floor. Then he noticed that distinct lack of a shape of where a couple of bodies should've been. Heart leaping to his heart, John worried his lips and looked between the two other men coming belatedly to the same conclusion that they had. "My parents weren't there when the house was burnt. Or at least their bodies weren't." He reeled at the thought while his two companions waiting patiently as John processed through the possible notion that Sherlock might not have been the only person in his life to fake his death. There was anger but also laced with a slight sense of hope.

"John?"

"Keep going." John growled, his eyes hardened but determined.

With John up to speed and Sherlock now fully engaged in the case, Edward clicked on the laptop for the next picture. This time it was an aerial view of the remains and it seemed even clearer that the fire was deliberate but a certain area was also circled; a figure of a bespectacled man in a dark suit and slicked black blonde hair, set square jaw with a perfectly cut beard and it gave John an allusion of a snake about to strike out an unsuspecting prey. Some could've mistaken the man as an innocent bystander but by the way he had looked up towards the helicopter with a quirk of one side of his lip rather than the wreckage that was the house was what was most disconcerting.

"That man there is the aforementioned Charles Augustus Magnussen, but there was no major media coverage of the incident outside a small section in the local papers."

"So… he was involved in the cover up?" Edward hunched over as the hate for the business man was evident.

"I said Napoleon of blackmail, John. So it's obvious what he was doing at that time. It's his way of acquiring what he called 'assets'"

"What asset though? What was there that needed to be kept secret?"

"This." Sherlock replied as he grabbed a pen and paper and sketched a familiar looking pattern that John had seen earlier then held up the paper next to the screen of the laptop. John was confused but then as his mind adjusted, it made sense. Amidst the rubble, there was a distinctive shape that was engraved underneath it all; a circle with disjointed parts inside and it matched the Sherlock's drawing exactly. John recognised the patterns that had littered all over the floor of 221B, photo shots of the different locations that scattered across London. "I perceive that Mr Elric knows the significance of this little phenomenon that's been popping around all over London and that Magnusson learning about it is what lead to his death. Yet somehow, you just heard his name being crowed out of a mercenary hired to kidnap you and John."

Heart racing, John looked at Sherlock. Outwardly, he seemed indifferent but John could tell the subtle nuances as mercurial eyes were alight with excitement. The heavy bags became darker as his mind raced with deductions. It was not the typical 'just about to start a rank 8 and above case' kind of excitement. It was, well, John wasn't sure what it was but it was disturbing, more disturbing than watching the detective jump off a roof or the so called "danger" nights he got alerted about by an overprotective elder brother. John thoughts went back to 221B at the papers and photographs plastered on the wall, completely obscuring the wallpaper and all depicting the same pattern across several different, unconnected locations. He reflected upon the waves of frustration coming from Sherlock until he all but collapsed onto his sofa in complete exhaustion. John reeled from the implications of possible links to his own past and while at first, he felt eager to learn more about it, seeing Sherlock the way he was right now, he was a little afraid. Edward obviously caught on from his reaction as well as the more subtle change over Sherlock. He closed his eyes letting out a slow breath.

"Crap…" he whispered to himself. Snapping the laptop shut.

"We'll take the case." Sherlock said not hearing the man mutter to himself. John blinked as Edward had not even told them exactly what he wanted Sherlock to do.

"No." Edward snapped and the possessed look on Sherlock disappeared into confused surprise. Edward glared at the detective, the hardened war veteran in him returning and reminding John that he had just tossed six very heavy mercenaries into the bathroom with one arm. "I believe I've made a mistake gentlemen, I apologise for wasting your time." Sherlock visibly blanched making him look even sicklier than before and Edward slowly shifted to his feet taking the laptop. Sherlock reached out placing his marble coloured hands over gloved ones.

"Mr Elric, just give me the opportunity. I know you want discretion, I can give that. If you would enlighten me about the circumstances of this-"

"**There is no case, Mr Holmes**!" Edward barked, voice carrying an air of authority that John was used to hearing in his time in the army and something he had used on Sherlock sometimes. It made Sherlock flinch pulling his large hand away as if Edward burned it by the sheer ferocity of his voice and he sat back like a reprimanded child. A moment of silence and the old man stood up with a sigh, slipping back to his frail demeanour and started to shuffle away. If John wasn't in enough shock by what had just transpired, with Sherlock literally begging for the case or that he was rejected so thoroughly.

"Mr Elric," Edward flinched and John retracted. "Grandfather, give him a chance, people held you hostage earlier. Now, there is clearly a threat to you and -"

"Go home John," Edward said quietly, placing a gloved hand on his shoulder giving a light squeeze, a sad but proud smile on his face. "I'm sure your pregnant wife will appreciate the candlelit dinner you planned for her."

"How-"

"It's a good looking suit and I saw a receipt to Mothercare hanging out from your jacket pocket." Edward replied. His gaze turned cautiously over to Sherlock as he slipped on a coat. "You too, Sherlock." Sherlock had snapped out of his daze at Edward's verbal shut down and pursed his cupid lips as beneath the emotionless face, his mind went a million miles an hour.

"At least, allow me to use the skill I built my entire career on." Sherlock said abruptly stopping the old man from leaving. "For shits and giggles." He sneered as he spat it out. John had never heard the detective to swear, it was usually seen as beneath him so it was clear that for the first time Sherlock was extremely angry and at the end of his tether. Mercurial eyes glowered gathering every little detail from the old man.

"Judging from your resigned posture, you don't want to find out what really happened to your daughter and son-in-law because you already know what happened and you also know why they disappeared. Investigation of the matter would reveal something significant about the markings left over by the fire which you swore secrecy to." Sherlock paused for dramatic effect. "Since you are extremely well versed in making ciphers, codes and other means of creating hidden messages, you have kept that secret well from the prying eyes of the British government and several other organisations so I 'deduce' that this secret is potentially, world changing and we all know how fucked up the world is already without this kind of knowledge." Sherlock rolled his eyes as he was pacing around the room with a disturbed John following his every movement. "You've dealt with all of them. MI5, CIA, FBI, Interpol but this? This latest attempt sent by the apparently dead Charles Augustus Magnusson was a new development." Edward huffed, but had not made any further attempt to leave nor argue with the detective. "You don't know who this new group is and that was what compelled you to seek me out. A desperate last resort to not to find your children but to protect your grandchildren. John… and Harriet."

John looked at Sherlock in alarm at the mention of his sister and the realisation that she might be in some sort of trouble as well. Thinking about it and how things were transpiring it shouldn't be surprising and he kicked himself for not recognising the threat. Seeing the old man twitch in reaction to Harriet's name being mentioned, John knew that Sherlock had hit it on the nail. He quickly sent a text to Harriet while Sherlock continued his monologue.

**Are you at home? Call me back **

"But of course, you can't risk me finding out about it either right? That's why you shut down all of a sudden after calling me here because you're afraid of what I'll find. Of what I'll figure out. Well let's me tell you something." Sherlock started grabbing broken shards of shattered crockery of cups and plates from the fight earlier and placing them on a tray in what looked like cleaning up. In this bizarre act, blood started to stain the bits of porcelain pieces much to John's alarm.

"Sherlock! What are you doing?"

Sherlock grabbed the pen and the paper once more and completed drew some more images, this time the formation of images filled and seemed to slot together as the previously incomplete design shaped into a diagram of strange words and phrases and connections. Edward's eyes widened with recognition as he completed then placed the tray of broken pieces on top of the table and slamming his hands down either side of the paper.

A blue glow immediately started to gather and a strange smell emitted as something pulsed and made John's heart thump in his chest. Air blew and whipped around like a small whirlwind and the sound of something crackling. The blue glow turned bright and electrical in nature before it filled the room in a blinding flash. Just before it did, John could almost see the shards vibrate and shake then slowly merged and float up in the air. Just as the light appeared it disappeared and in place of the tray of fragmented pieces of ceramic laid a perfect looking tea set. Sweat had appeared on Sherlock's brow. He looked even paler than ever, his cupid bow lips were now completely devoid of colour and he looked on the verge of passing out.

"I figured it all out when I was 6 and I don't give a crap about your fucking alchemy."


End file.
